


Wax Wings

by BrieflyDel (newredshoes)



Category: Marvel 1602
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, icarus and daedalus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-10
Updated: 2005-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newredshoes/pseuds/BrieflyDel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new year is 1893, and Oscar Wilde, darling of London and the world at large, is made most curious by a mysterious invitation to a certain house in Shropshire. The master of the estate seeks Oscar's particular opinion on a matter of some gravity, one of many weights on his young shoulders. [Contains Oscar/Bosie, but that's to be expected.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wax Wings

**Author's Note:**

> **Dedication:** This fall I had a wonderful opportunity to get to know some of the most incredible people I've met yet at college. _Gross Indecency_ was an experience necessitating its own unnamable category, and for that, this story stands as a tender expression of my great admiration for [](http://kaydeefalls.livejournal.com/profile)[**kaydeefalls**](http://kaydeefalls.livejournal.com/) , our director. Er, well, not in the Wildean sense, but that's another thing entirely. So Phoebe -- thank you.  
>  **A/N:** _Grazie mille à_ [](http://e-clare.livejournal.com/profile)[**e_clare**](http://e-clare.livejournal.com/) for her enormously helpful beta.  
>  **Apology:** To Mr. Wilde himself, sorry for any potential bastardization of your work. Well, okay, blatant _Importance of Being Earnest_ bastardization, but most of the discussion of the Meaning Of Art and all is lifted from _Gross Indecency_ by Moises Kaufman. Whatever's wrong, well... I can always blame it on the AU. [Click here](http://arthursclassicnovels.com/arthurs/wilde.html) to fall in love with the real thing.

Alfred set down his tea and saucer and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Ceylon is, without a doubt, the finest diadem in Victoria Regina’s treasury. I shudder to think what swill Englishmen drank before we owned it.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “I suppose we’d all be reduced to champagne. By the by, dear boy, I feel bound to point out that you were cheated on your birthday last. Were you responsible for the purchase of that ghastly Charbaut?”

“I have found it pleasant and serviceable for most occasions.”

“Most occasions are one thing, a birthday is entirely another. I fear your guests will think I was stinting them, serving anything other than Veuve Clicquot. I would not have refused to pay for it, you know.”

The faintest of smirks twisted the cardinal features of Alfred’s face. “You fret over the opinions of the Parkers?”

“They’re _your_ friends, Alfred. It is not I on whom they reflect. But if our tab with my name and that beverage sharing a space of paper were found out by the press, the scandal that should arise, I cannot bear to imagine!”

“You really needn’t worry about untoward gossip, Oscar. They seemed to like it all the same.”

“Indeed. Guzzling champagne like that. I should like another go at instructing them properly, if I may. The artless frivolity was enjoyable in its way, I will concede, but there are a few behaviors I will not tolerate, and refusing to savor a good Grande Dame is one of them.”

Alfred sighed, and took another sip of tea. The rim of the cup did not conceal the quirk at the edge of his lips. “This is what I get for mixing societies, isn’t it.”

“Not at all! One would never learn a thing if not for the example of the lower classes! They are much more free to err than ever we are.”

“Funny, I should think they would say exactly that of us.” He lowered his saucer onto the table. “Incidentally, I have a bit of an opportunity for you, my dear Oscar. One of my young friends has a lady-love, a very captivating and gifted _belle française._ Her brother is a butler at a certain house in Shropshire. The lord of that house has expressed interest in meeting you.”

“Meeting me?” Oscar set his napkin in his lap. “Is that so?”

“Yes. Now, the purpose has not been revealed to me as such – this being a private matter, of course – but the inferred motive seems most likely that he is in awe of your art, and craves your genius.”

Oscar arched one elegant eyebrow. “Surely, Alfred, this is one of your elaborate ruses. I have plenty of other acquaintances through whom this ‘lord’ of yours might have moved.”

Alfred reached into his breast pocket and produced an envelope of heavy cream paper. It dangled between his manicured fingers for a moment, and then he held it out over the table. “Do you doubt the unbroken seal?”

Somewhat baffled (but more to the point unexpectedly delighted by the adventure promised), Oscar accepted the letter and examined it. The red wax on the back bore a crest bespeaking a fine lineage indeed, if the archaic choice of emblem was to be trusted. He cracked the seal and opened the letter. The hand was fine, the signature nearly calligraphic. It read:

> Mr. Wilde –
> 
> They say your wit in person outshines even that on the page. Having read your words and works, I am eager to see whether this be true. A matter of import has been weighing on me, and I suspect that the mind I require to unravel this mystery is your own. To have you dine with me would be a compliment and a delight. Please call at your earliest convenience – Manor House, Eyry-on-Severn, Shropshire. Regards,  
> 
> 
> WW

Oscar met Alfred’s glinting, curious eye. “Well, there’s only one thing for it. I must go at once!” He rose and began collecting his effects. Alfred watched him from his seat.

“Oh, that is a shame. I’ve just gotten a new batch of preserved cherries for us all to enjoy.”

“Send my regards, Alfred, with promises to return soon. Your delicacies are gifted with a remarkable talent for waiting. This, Mr. Taylor, is simply not to be refused!”

* * *

A reply telegram to Oscar’s own arrived the next day at 16 Tite Street. The author, while not the mysterious Mr. W, confirmed the plan and made allowances for Oscar’s arrival by train. A coach would fetch him at the Shrewsbury station, and would convey him hence to the estate. By virtue of discreet inquiry, Oscar learned that the family associated with Eyry-on-Severn was surnamed Worthington.

“I will miss you,” Bosie said that evening, lounging in the chaise as though he’d been poured into it. “I cannot bear to imagine you sleeping in some other fellow’s bed far away from me.”

“Never fear, my dear, gilt boy,” said Oscar, straightening his tie in the mirror. “I shall come to no harm, I daresay. And harbor no fears of my abandoning you – I should be a bigger fool than Lear himself to be so monstrous.”

Bosie swung one ankle and looked away. “Well, I still think it’s beastly that we’ll be apart. I was planning on bringing us round to a friend’s place tomorrow.”

“Perhaps we can make use of this brief separation. Let us each write a poem on the sentiments we endure, and compare them when we are reunited. What do you say to that?”

Bosie fixed his raptor-sharp gaze on Oscar and lowered his palm from his chin. “I think I wonder what this Worthington wants with you. I’ve heard of the family, but I know no one who has ever met this recluse. I imagine he is one of those country lords with good standing among those who don’t know better.”

“On the contrary, a touch of research finds that his name appears in the Domesday Book, which is more than can be said for either of us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Bosie retorted sullenly. Oscar turned about.

“There is no need for you to be so cross, you know. I will be back before the week is out. Recall those long weeks when you were engaged at school still? Past experience would seem to indicate that this is a trifling interruption of our companionship, rather than some modern manifestation of Alcyone and poor Ceyx.”

This drew a wan, grudging smile from the boy. “You and your Greeks.” With a sigh, he lifted himself upright. “All right. But you are to come to me straightaway when you return to London, do you understand?”

Oscar kissed him. “Perfectly. In the meantime, I expect you to pine magnificently for me. It is, after all, the only way you know how to do anything.”

* * *

A man of Worthington’s was waiting at the platform in Shrewsbury. He recognized Oscar instantly, and lead him toward a waiting carriage with admirable efficiency. The afternoon was ripe for calling, and the Manor House was reached just in time for tea. The porter pounced upon his luggage, and a butler appeared just as Oscar was making note of a ramp that ran up the side of the front step, marring the ancient symmetry of the façade. Oscar was pleased to find no small amount of beauty in his person. He was a tall boy, though not quite eye-level with Oscar himself, and though obviously young, possessed of a head of striking silvery hair. His bow was graceful and composed.

“Mr. Wilde. Please, come inside.”

While his tone was reserved, he spoke with a pleasant French accent, which Oscar surmised to be from some region other than Paris.

_“Je suis fluent en français,”_ he remarked smoothly as he followed the butler through the foyer.

“I am glad to hear it,” the servant replied. “This household is an English one, sir.”

“Ah.” He glanced at a large hanging canvas portraying the Lady of Shalott. “And into whose care am I placing myself at the moment?”

“My name is Beaubier, sir. It was I who replied to your telegram of Monday night.”

“Indeed! Yes. Very swift you were. A modern marvel of service.”

Beaubier allowed himself a smile. “That word has been paired with my name on occasion.”

“I am sure your employer has a great many words for you.”

“That is all at his discretion, Mr. Wilde.”

“Of course. Ah.” He stopped and touched Beaubier’s elbow. Beaubier stopped and looked at him, his face once again blank with professionalism. “It is Mr. Worthington I’m to be seeing, am I correct?”

“Lord Warren Worthington, nineteenth Duke of Salop, yes.”

“He is a _duke?_ Oh… Good heavens, I was not aware.”

Beaubier inclined his head. “I trust it will not impede your ability to make talk with him, sir.”

“No, no, of course not.” He laughed it off. “Not a bit. A man is a man, is he not? I merely was taken by surprise.” Beaubier said nothing, and continued walking. There was no more conversation as they stepped into a comfortably-sized elevator, of very fine build, and ascended three floors.

The butler led Oscar to a pair of fine wooden doors at the end of the corridor. With a motion of his gloved hand he bade him wait. At Beaubier’s knock, a muffled voice made answer. With an expansive motion, he spread the doors, to reveal a fantastic study, high of ceiling and replete with windows, its wood paneling aglow in the afternoon sun. Books, paintings and sculptures filled the floor and walls; a desk occupied the far end of the room, and a sitting area completed the space bound by a set of French doors. “Mr. Oscar Wilde, my lord,” he announced, and bowed. Oscar straightened, put on his best entertaining face, and strode in.

Lord Warren Worthington, nineteenth Duke of Salop, approached to meet him and offered a smile and his hand. “Mr. Wilde, how good of you to join me,” he said with all the proper mannerisms and grace. Beneath Oscar’s own, the duke’s hands felt somewhat lighter than appearances would betray, though the grip was firm enough. His host was by no means a small man – indeed, he was quite broad in the chest, but both Beaubier and Oscar had a few inches on him. His person was exceedingly handsome, despite a hunch about the shoulders that indicated some sort of back ailment. To all this, Oscar bowed.

“I am delighted to have been asked, my lord. It is my considered opinion that the British suffer from an excess of dull conversation; if it be my mission to eradicate this, then I am more than willing to make house calls.”

“A noble pursuit if ever there was one,” the duke replied, still smiling. “Please, would you care for some tea or refreshments? Something to drink, perhaps?” He nodded at the butler, standing at attention by the double doors.

Oscar twisted slightly to look at Beaubier, and then said, “I think a good brandy would suit, thank you.”

Worthington clasped his hands behind his back. “A tea tray and a pot of the afternoon blend for myself, and a brandy for Mr. Wilde, please, Beaubier.”

“Very good, sir.” The manservant bowed and was gone, closing the doors behind him. Worthington gestured at a plush armchair and offered Oscar a seat.

“I trust your trip up from London was pleasant?”

“Yes, very,” Oscar replied, settling into the cushions. “I must say, having experienced the American breed of train cars, which are more of an excuse to nail iron spikes in the ground than ever they were a means of travel, the British rail system is positively civilized. But this is a trifling topic – I trust you are familiar with the journey.”

“Not as much as some others, actually.” He lowered himself onto a diphros, that elegant Aegean stool that was as mathematically attractive as it was ergonomic. “When I was younger we went to London to seek out doctors, but that was before this particular line was built. As I’ve grown, though, it’s become less and less necessary to descend on town, so, out of a preference for solitude, I’ve not done so.”

“Indeed? And what is it about London town that fails to attract you?”

Worthington made a face. “It is very close. I imagine the pigeons are the only ones with any real freedom of movement.”

“Yes, but this is only because it has been inhabited and built upon for close to two millennia. If you’ll pardon my saying, it seems sacrilegious to dismiss so great a city simply by fault of its age. I should hardly speak to two-thirds of my relatives and casual acquaintances if I did the same.”

The duke laughed. “Indeed. Well, suffice it to say I have always found myself more comfortable in a rural setting.”

“Is the society pleasing to you?” Bosie’s words came back to him unbidden, but Oscar knew better than to be so impolitic aloud.

“What, here or in town?”

“Either. Both. As a man of society myself, I feel obliged ask.”

The duke succumbed to a brief, knowing chuckle. “So you might know at whose expense to form your jokes?” Oscar affected indignation.

“Certainly not! I am most democratic in my observations: like the Norsemen of old, I spare no one. No, sir, I merely wonder if there is some aspect of the so-called ‘upper crust’ that I have missed because of my proximity to it.”

The young gentleman dropped his eyes and began toying with a ring he wore. “I think it has less to do with the people and more to do with the expectations. When one is in town, one amuses oneself. When one is in the country, one amuses other people. There is so much less explaining to do when you are the host.” This, of course, raised a regiment of warning flags in Oscar’s mind, but Worthington segued to the next subject with practiced ease. “So, I hear you are an Oxford man, Mr. Wilde.”

“Magdalen College, yes. And yourself?”

“Regrettably, while I was admitted, I was not able to attend, owing to my condition.” Oscar opened his mouth to question Worthington on this matter. Beaubier came in, pushing a trolley. Worthington allowed himself to be distracted. “Ah, here we are. Tea? Biscuits? Cake?” Oscar politely declined, and cradled the brandy in one hand as the duke sipped his beverage. “Ah. Very fine, Beaubier. Thank you, you may leave us now.”

“My lord.” He bowed and exited once again. Worthington balanced his saucer on his knee. In this pose, he seemed more hunched than ever.

“As I was saying, no, I was not able personally to attend university, though I read a great deal, and I have invested in the finest of tutors. A Cambridge man, but that may be overlooked.”

“Ha, quite.” Oscar took a sip and leaned forward. “Sir, if I may, you allude to this ‘condition’ of yours but you have not made it known. Surely it cannot hinder you so much as to confine you to this house and deprive others of your company. You appear to me in superb health, and from our conversation thus far I cannot doubt the quality of your mind.”

The lines of Worthington’s face shifted, and a small, knowing smile perched on his lips. “It is a condition of the blood, Mr. Wilde. Blood is so important these days, is it not? As I said, one is forced to explain less when one is the host.” Though bold in conversation, Oscar knew a successful parry when he saw one, and sat back and crossed his legs. Worthington began running his finger around the rim of his cup. “I have been provided with the texts of many of your writings and lectures, and I must say, your philosophies intrigue me. I was hoping you might help me with a question weighing on my shoulders.”

“Ah, so it is more than idle conversation that you seek.”

He nodded. “Very much so.” He finished his tea and stared into his cup, as though seeking out his next sentence in the leaves. “You are fond of the Ancients, yes?”

“If fondness is an unreserved passion for the wisdom of the pagan Greeks, then yes, I suppose that I am.”

“Then you must be familiar with the myth of Daedalus and Icarus.”

“Certainly.”

“I like your way with words, Mr. Wilde. Please relate it to me as you would tell it.”

Oscar furrowed his brow slightly. “With pleasure, my lord.” The duke stood up and wandered over to a set of French doors leading out onto a balcony. “Long ago,” Oscar began, his eye on the bulge rising from Worthington’s back, “in the days when the Minotaur hounded the sleepless nights of Athenian youths, a brilliant man called Daedalus helped Theseus defeat this beast and escape the labyrinth at Knossos unscathed. The king of Crete, whose name was Minos, was furious, and he locked up Daedalus and Daedalus’ son Icarus too, in a high, high tower with a window to taunt them with the outside world. Now, Daedalus knew he was a genius, and he knew he was meant for better things than rotting away in some cell, no matter how lovely the view. He built two pair of splendid wax wings, just like the real thing, and an apparatus to attach them with so that he and his son could fly away.

“They were marvelous wings, but they were still made of wax, and he cautioned his young son not to fly too close to the sun, for then they would melt, and all would be lost. But when the time came, Icarus found that flying was so marvelous, he wanted to do nothing more than climb and soar and wheel. The heat of the sun is a cold thing, though, and is not moved for the joy of one small youth. The wings gave way to the warmth and disintegrated, and poor Icarus tumbled down into the water, where he drowned, before his father’s very eyes.”

“There.” Worthington did not turn. “Enough.”

Oscar cocked his head. “But you did not let me finish.”

Worthington gave him a look over one shoulder. “That is the part of the story in which I am interested.” He swiveled on his heel and took a few measured steps. “Now, I assume you think the meaning of that story clear.”

“Something as subjective as a meaning is rarely clear or apparent, my lord.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” He clasped his hands behind his back again. “I will tell you what this fable teaches me. It fills me with despair. To me it speaks of the inevitable failure of the genius of man, who must always suffer crippling tragedy at his finest hour. It reminds me that the best intentions are always ruined by someone else’s foolishness, and more than being instructive, it makes me afraid of the rest of my race.”

Oscar sat up. “My dear fellow, ancient though it be, this is still a work of fiction. We can only consider it in terms of art. If it had lasted this long by inflicting sorrow on human beings, it would have to be a work of politics. Art does not fail us, it is only in imagination that we can fail art. Now, the wings themselves were not flawed, only the application. The caution is not against creation but carelessness and misuse.”

“But did you not just rebuke me for assigning one meaning to the tale?”

“No, I rebuked you for assuming that despair can come from art. The principle role of art is in realizing beauty, and in bettering the world for its presence. An interpretation is merely an individual truth related to a work of art. Many are correct in some measure or another, but the ones that are certainly _not_ are those that assign ugliness to the work itself, rather than to the person in whom the sentiments arose.”

A muscle in Worthington’s neck twitched, but he took a deep breath and looked away from Oscar. “Thank you, Mr. Wilde. You have given me something to ponder.” His voice was quiet. “I believe your room will be ready. If you would be so kind to leave me with my thoughts for a time, and we may reconvene during supper for more.” He rang a bell. Almost instantaneously, the butler appeared. Worthington straightened as best he could. “Beaubier will show you out. We dine at eight.”

Oscar began to wonder if perhaps he’d stumbled upon a less cultivated (and indeed, less settled) mind than he had hoped for. Remaining obedient to his host’s wishes, he arose, and with a customary parting phrase, followed the Frenchman away. As Beaubier shut the doors, Oscar chanced a backward glance at Worthington, but his face was swallowed by the glare of sunset, and from his attitude he could divine nothing.

* * *

The meal was a fine one, and the conversation that superficial type Oscar so excelled at when he had a mind to it. The parson was in attendance, as was his young nephew, a melancholy lad named Starsmore up visiting from London. The boy, Oscar thought, was doing his best to model himself on one of the moodier Romantics, but when Oscar tried to engage him in a real discussion of poetry, he fell short of expressing much, and so fell silent soon thereafter, passing the remainder of the evening picking at his steak. Worthington’s guests, whom he entertained on a weekly basis, stayed for wine but departed by half past ten, citing the early hour at which God expected His work to be commenced. Worthington had remained blithe and charming throughout – a model host. Once they were alone again, he invited Oscar back up to his study for a continuation of their prior discussion.

He paced as he spoke, appearing eager to distance himself from the small talk of the previous hour. “I should like to return to our dialogue on Daedalus and Icarus, if I may. Now, issues of liberty aside, what would have been wrong with Daedalus simply accepting his tower and devoting his life to contemplation?”

A disbelieving laugh escaped Oscar’s throat. “Why, the lack of an appreciative audience! Surely it can hardly matter what brilliant ideas one comes up with if no one else can hear of them.” Worthington frowned, determined to prove his point.  
“You cannot say there will never be one! Perhaps it will come to fruition after he is dead.”

“And they have discovered his bones rotting away in his cell?” Oscar chuckled. “Trust me, there is no glory in posthumous fame, unless it be for an estate with good solicitors. No, it could never be, for what true artist never wanted his brilliance to be recognized? Even the monks in their cloisters at Kells were drawing and illuminating their books for God.” He shook his head, and took a sip of claret. “Not to mention his son. There is no way he should be allowed to make that choice for Icarus, who must decide for himself whether he wishes to claim that tower as his own or to fly.”

Worthington hugged his elbows. “I still do not see why an audience is strictly necessary. What more can be of import if the – artist knows himself that he has done well?”

“Because of one inescapable fact: that we are not alone. The presence of other people in the world promises that there is a chance there is someone out there who will understand you. I need hardly explain what a treasure that is.”

The duke lifted his eyes to the high ceiling. “Is it likely?”

“What good is the world if it is not?”

The young duke leaned against a bookshelf and gazed at a curtained window. “I think we have been talking too much of Daedalus. I believe there must be more to poor Icarus, whose flight failed his father so.”

Oscar knew something about conceits, but here was a fellow with a singular metaphorical fixation. It did not sit well with him: the man ought to broaden his outlook. “Well, what do you believe is the most important thing about Icarus? That he fell?”

Worthington met his eye with a new sort of conviction. “That he obeyed his father. His father was a brilliant and busy man. Such a fellow could not have a dolt for a son.”

“No! Remember, after all, the lad flew too.”

A barely detectable sigh lifted his shoulders. “Of course. It was expected of him.”

Oscar sat back and crossed his legs. “Lord Worthington, how old are you?”

“I –“ He seemed taken aback by the question, but he collected himself quickly and answered, “I am nearly twenty-one, sir. And yourself?”

“Oh, I admit to thirty-six, but I must confess I’ve quite lost track by this point.”

“Mm. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I was merely curious.” Both pretended interest in other regions of the room for a few moments, until Worthington stuck his hands into his pockets and advanced on Oscar, tilting his head.

“Would it be petty of me to ask your opinion on Dr. Chiswick, based on your experience with him at dinner?”

Oscar cradled his glass, smiling at the duke’s question. “Perfectly, and I am pleased to be frank, if I may. He seemed to me the best sort of bore, one who believes himself finely educated because he knows many complicated names. He was a delightful study in character, and I must thank you for introducing us. I fear he may worm his way into a tale if I’m not careful.”

Worthington shook his head. “My parents set him to look after me while they are away. He writes them a letter about me every week after he leaves. They chose him because he is a natural gossip, and therefore takes heed of every inconsequential detail.”  
Oscar frowned, and switched hands with his glass. “What is it your father does?”

“He is rich, that is what he does. He throws money at things, and expects something pleasing to result from it. I am not aware that he really _does_ very much at all. But then, we do not talk much.” He waved a hand. “In any case, he is not the matter which concerns me.”

_Oh, I somehow very much doubt that,_ Oscar thought to himself, but sipped quietly as Worthington recommenced his pacing.

“Elements of your theory worry me, Mr. Wilde. I wonder whether this life you propose, this existence devoted to the creation of beauty, might look lovely on paper, but would in fact sum up to indulgent idleness.”

Five hours together and this was the first tired argument made: not bad. Oscar allowed himself a smile. “Then surely you have not seen what ugliness and atrocities the aesthete must combat the world over. What I mean is that there are some who are messengers, and there are the rest, who take heed. Sir, there is no idleness in art: otherwise nothing would be accomplished by it.”

Worthington stopped all movement and planted himself in the middle of the carpet, facing Oscar. “Then what is it that fills this vacuum left by the absence of idleness? What purpose does your Art serve in the life of Man?” His face became more lovely when furrowed in the midst of dialogue. It was such a pity about the hump. Oscar readied his speech.

“The purpose of art is, as I have said, to produce a sense of beauty in its audience. In turn, this beauty is a reflection of some truth that underscores existence. Granted, a truth is a very personal and highly individualized thing, but it is perfect in form and application when fully realized. Beauty produces pleasure, and pleasure is the planting-place for love. The versatility of art points to its inherent hopefulness in humanity and in the world. This is what cannot be killed about it; art’s utter contempt for death is what makes it so absolutely vital for us as a race. It instills us with awe and respect, and it ever urges us to be the better for its presence. It – Lord Worthington, are you taken ill?”

Worthington had retreated from center stage, and was now slumped back on his diphros, his chin in his hand, one finger pressed against the bridge of his nose. The curvature of his spine questioned all that Oscar was espousing. Rather than alert and robust, the duke suddenly appeared sad, and indubitably deformed. “No, no,” he replied, distantly. “It is a lovely idea. Yet there is one more story I would beg you to interpret for me. If you promise to speak plainly, will you be my Pythia, Mr. Wilde?”

Oscar was alarmed. “The sibyl made no so guarantee, but I will do my best for you, my lord.”

Worthington put his hands in his lap. “Very well.

“Suppose there is a man who, through art and through what he knows of the world, has fallen in love with the human race and longs to save it from its own folly, and yet, because of certain inescapable facts and constraints, is unable to do any more than watch them all from afar. What is he to do with his life?”

Never had any priest heard such a stark confession. Oscar studied Worthington’s visage, his posture and his unveiled thoughts. “Such a man, were he truly powerless, would be driven to throw himself from a tall place, my lord.”

The boy squeezed his eyes shut. His voice was little more than a whisper. “And what should be done by a man who cannot fall?”

For a moment, Oscar found that he did pity the duke, wrapped up in the tragedy of his own imperfections. But the moment passed, and he was compelled to give voice to his opinion. “The question is irrelevant, sir: again, you have not allowed me to finish my thought. Were he truly powerless, this man would indeed be in an unenviable state. But in truth, ‘powerless’ is a simple synonym for ‘dull’ – anyone is powerless who has not the imagination to shape the world to his will. Who is Daedalus without his genius for problem solving? He is a man trapped in a tower, but with it, he is an archetype for the modern scientist. I do not say artist because his craft was all directed toward survival, but I cannot imagine that the vans which he constructed lacked beauty: the success of his design necessitates that special perfection of form which inherently allows for flight. So in answer to your question, sir, whether a man may fall or not, he cannot be afraid of the moment when he steps off the tower ledge and onto the open air.”

Worthington did not move: he simply stared, as though Oscar’s words themselves had left raw red marks across his skin and back. Oscar looked down into his glass and finished off the claret. He then lifted himself onto his feet and circled the chair, resting one hand on the velvet surface of the high cushion. “Well. Icarus must have loved his father very much, to take to the skies rather than keeping to his familiar cell. That requires an exceptional boldness, almost as much as it would take to disobey.” He leaned upon his forearms and raised both eyebrows at the boy. “And you know, a story does not always end where the author ceases to give voice to it. Perhaps, after we have stopped looking, when Icarus falls from the sky and into the water, he does not drown, but finding himself in a brave new world, instead he learns to swim and so masters the wine-dark sea.”

An artist must always be willing to imagine the several possibilities that may spring from an event or conversation, and as the silence persisted, Oscar engaged himself in just that. He was both pleased and relieved when, rather than his being dismissed or thrown out or some other indignity, Worthington allowed himself a strange smile. “Your passion shames me. You have found for yourself the noblest of all pursuits.” He lifted his head and looked right at Oscar. “I am glad that you have come here tonight.”

He bowed a little. “If I have been of help, my lord, then I am glad to have answered your call.”

“Mm, yes.” Worthington’s fingers beat out a tattoo on his knee: he seemed very intent upon them. “Now, there are just a few remaining matters that I should like to clarify. I know you are a man much given to discretion. An acquaintance with Mr. Taylor demands it.”

The change in the direction of the conversation was unexpected, but Oscar was sure he could master it. He laughed. Worthington remained placid and serious. “What exactly are you insinuating, sir?”

“I insinuate nothing. I am telling you that my reasons for contacting you as I did were well-founded.”

“Are they? Oh, good.” He glanced about for the liquor tray, and made his way toward a stand upon which rested a decanter of liqueur. He poured himself a glass after his companion refused the offer with a closed look. “I must confess I had wondered why your invitation did not come to me through other channels. I as much as anybody enjoy a good caper – indeed, your letter, it seems, traveled much like a rumor; but surely you know Lord Alfred Douglas?”

“Son of Queensberry?” Worthington nodded. “Yes. What a nice little family they are, the Douglases.” Something in his voice betrayed a civilized disdain for the surname. “Do have a care, Mr. Wilde, and take heed. Theirs is a clan that likes doing its own dirty laundry in the public eye.” He continued before Oscar could pursue his meaning. “Your friendship with members of society who run in my own (however limited) circles not withstanding, I did not find it prudent to send my inquiry through those who would talk about it. I am very averse to unfettered talk, you see. It could lead to very dangerous consequences for many besides myself, were it allowed to run its course. You, of course, are a famous talker. And I do not wish to be written about either. What sort of guarantee could I have that you would not share my secret if I did not have proof of something to conceal on your part?”

For the first time, Oscar began to feel truly uneasy, though as soon as the sensation manifested itself in his belly he denied it. “Lord Worthington, there is nothing in my experience that leads me to believe that there is some reason not to delight in the company of Mr. Taylor.”

“Mr. Wilde.” For the first time, Worthington’s voice held something of the noble correcting his tiresome inferior. “Your act is well played, but I know there are elements of Greek culture you wholeheartedly embrace that many others, including the law courts, do not.”

“Oh? Has the Queen finally outlawed philosophy? The government is forever trying to banish that which it cannot understand.” Oscar strolled back toward the armchair, glass in hand. Worthington watched him, not moving from his seat.

“Beaubier’s sister is involved with a man of whom he does not approve. His name is Frederick Atkins. I believe you know him.” Oscar faced his host at his full height.

“I believe I have met the gentlemen in question, yes, but I cannot see what—“

“Mr. Wilde, please.”

Oscar opened his mouth for a retort, but at the expression on his host’s face found the words turn dry as ash upon his tongue. He realized that somehow he had lost control of the situation, and the duke was lording it over him. They exchanged looks, Oscar’s outraged, Worthington’s mild and measured.

“Is this blackmail, sir?”

“It is a handshake. We are two men with secrets, that is all.” He wove his fingers together, then steepled them. “I mean you no offense, Mr. Wilde, and I certainly mean you no harm. Can you forgive me, for being cautious?”

Oscar glared down at him. “I should think I require a very good reason not to take offense, my lord, and it is only on the part of our previous engagement that I remain at all.”

“Very well.” Worthington got to his feet, unhurried, and shed his jacket. He laid it across his seat before removing himself a few paces from the chairs, into a space clear of furniture that could have been used otherwise to great advantage. “Please keep your distance.”

Oscar frowned. “Sir, what—“ But he received no answer. Worthington undid his vest also, laying that on top of the jacket. Not until he pulled the tails of his shirt up from his waistband did Oscar’s curiosity match his disconcertion, both steadily increasing. Beneath the bare shirt, he noticed odd bulges across the duke’s torso, hinting at straps, and metal buckles. He was proved right an instant later when Worthington lifted his chin and, with patient, nimble fingers, unhooked the row of buttons down his middle. The boy shed his shirt, and tossed it aside without looking where it fell. Oscar could not tear his eyes from the sight of his bare chest, crossed with leather. Worthington’s brow furrowed in concentration, as he twisted his arms behind him, tugging here, pulling there. At once, the look passed, and his face relaxed. His work was over: he unclasped two more buckles, and slipped the apparatus binding him to the floor.

The duke rolled his neck and his broad shoulders. The glow of the lamps on his skin was radiant. Not a breath stirred the room. Oscar felt himself shaking. Slowly, very slowly, two white wings emerged from behind Lord Warren Worthington.

They spread, without haste, until they stretched to fill Oscar’s field of vision. They hung suspended in that pose, until the duke exhaled, and drew them back closer to his body. He gave Oscar a small smile. “It is a funny thing, blood. I hope you will appreciate this irony. You are just an Irishman, and yet are society’s darling. I am the tip of centuries of breeding, and yet that pedigree has found a way to bar me from the world I was born to know.”

Oscar had no reply to that. Worthington kept a steady eye on him. “Now you know the secret of my condition, Mr. Wilde. I ask you again, with this new evidence in mind: what is to be done?”

“I…” He could not muster more than a whisper, in the face of all this. “I believe _I_ must fear the rest of your race, my lord.” He shook his head, awed. “What is to become of us?” Worthington merely stood there, watching him, those magnificent white wings rustling faintly behind him. Oscar could not look away. “There can be nothing I can tell you that requires my own special knowledge. I have said what you needed to be told already. Nothing can be truly known by only imagining it.”

For a moment, Worthington looked puzzled and disappointed, but the moment passed, and he smiled at his hands. “I should have known better than to ask for a Pythia. But then again, you have given me something to ponder, Mr. Wilde. I thank you for it.” His breath still tight in his chest, Oscar bowed, haltingly. Worthington tilted his head and studied his guest. “Very few people know of these, sir, but in my experience, most want to touch them. Why do not you?”

Oscar straightened, and clasped his hands. “Sir, I could not bear to make them mundane by feeling them.” He eyed the pale vans curled behind Worthington’s shoulders. “I fear that in such a world, my imagination could not breach that new ceiling of escape.”

* * *

Bosie seemed to have had a splendid time in his absence. He made sure to tell Oscar all about it, especially the fights with his father that spurred him on to action. He paced around the bedroom, regaling the older man with stories of private carnivals, full of fun and flesh. “But I’m glad you’re back,” he purred at the end of it, and draped his arms around Oscar’s shoulders from behind. “I’m glad I have you all to myself again.”

Oscar faked a smile. “How did your poem come along? I finished several on the train.”

Bosie stared into space a moment, still wrapped around Oscar’s neck, and then stood up. “I haven’t written one. I hadn’t the time, I suppose.” His teeth flashed. “But it hardly matters, now that you’re in town again.” Oscar felt his breath hot against his neck. “‘My better angel is a man right fair’…”

With one motion, he shrugged the boy off and stood up. “Pray do not speak to me of angels, Bosie.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew his cigarette case. “Even the Bard does not always know what he is talking about.”

As Oscar lit the cigarette, Bosie stood to the side, astonished and outwardly amused. “What blasphemy is this, Oscar? The meaning of the line is hardly foggy.”

He swiveled on his heel to face him. “ An angel is not some blessed thing by virtue of its name. It is a messenger, and the news may be welcome or woeful. That is how the Greek operates.”

The mask on his young lover’s face was cracking, a little. “You and your Greeks,” he muttered. The duke’s words came back to Oscar unbidden, but he knew better than to tempt Bosie’s temper. He snuffed out his cigarette.

“I should get back home. My wife will be expecting me, and I must see my boys to bed.” He left very quickly, relieved to be gone from the company of Lord Alfred Douglas. In his mind, at their next meeting he would hand the boy a pair of wax wings. All that remained to be seen was what he would do with them.


End file.
